Chapter
Six:
The One Where Everyone Has Sex
QUEEN
ARAGORN: I know I shouldn’t have. It’s giving her too much power. I really
just brought it upon myself. You’ll see what I mean. And it did turn out damn
funny . . . I might ask her to do it again if it hadn’t taken THREE MONTHS!
Also: 10
Bonus Points if you can spot someone from our Bio class making a cameo. I’ll
give you a clue . . . it starts with L and ends in indsey
Bollinger.
By: Guest Author . . .
HELEN! A.k.a. 120 Mexican Whooping Llamas
Homi was sitting anxiously in the clinic’s reception area, jiggling
one foot and reading magazine articles with titles like 101 Ways to Mask
Herpes Sores when her ceel phone rang.
"Hello?"
"Homi?"
"Rachel?
Where are you?"
"Outside the Rainforest Café, using a pay phone."
"Helen
let you use a PAYPHONE?"
"Well,
the manager kicked them out of the volcano, so . . ."
The woman
next to Homi with an anteater attached to her . . .
well, yes, to her - let out a scream. Homi edged
away.
"Where
are you?" Rachel sounded suspicious. Screams like that were usually
attributed to Helen.
Homi sighed. "At a clinic, waiting for the test results to come
back."
"What .
. . sort of tests?" Rachel clutched anxiously at the unsuspecting person
next to her, longing for her rock. Love overcoming all obstacles obviously
didn’t apply to gravel-filled parking lots.
Homi lowered her voice, not that any of the people in the room looked
like the type to eavesdrop. They were more the type to videotape you having sex
and sell it on the internet. "Tests for any sort of STDs you can get from
fish."
There was
silence for a moment as Rachel put two and two together and came up with
eighteen-and-a-half. She readjusted mentally and let out an unearthly shriek.
"You slept with BRIAN?"
The man next to her also shrieked, but only because Rachel had
just broken his arm in her panic. Sorry, she mouthed silently as he
writhed on the floor.
"I . . .
well . . ." Homi tried to come up with some
rationalization for her actions that didn’t involve a granola bar. "I was
very drunk."
"You can
only GET so drunk before you pass out!" And Rachel knew all too well.
"Yes,
but, well . . . Oh, SHIT!" There was a click.
Rachel stared
at the silent phone. "Homi!
Homi, are you there? Did Helen just arrive? What . .
." At this point, she realized that the phone wouldn’t answer except
possibly if she used a method of questioning that involved a poker and some
thumbscrews.
~~~~~~~
In fact,
Helen had not just arrived. She was at Headquarters, in her bed. It was a large
bed. It had to be.
Helen was
plotting. This came naturally, but some heavy-duty plotting was in order to
solver her latest crisis.
"Evil
always wins, because good is STUPID," she muttered.
Dominic
Monaghan looked up. He was Helen’s bitch. They had a rather one-sided
monogamous relationship, mostly because she kept him chained to the bed. But he
didn’t really mind, because he doesn’t add anything to the plot and was only
stuck in it because, well, think about it. Dom. In black leather. And handcuffs.
Helen sighed
and lay back. Dom wrapped himself around her, because Helen thought better when
engaged in some sort of erotic activity. This picture wasn’t as cute as it
might have been, because Helen was sort of like an inside-out koala bear: soft
and huggable on the inside, but with nasty poisonous plants on the inside.
She sighed.
"It’s just not working. I’m out of inspiration."
Dom pouted.
It was adorable.
Helen gave
him a calculating look. "But maybe . . . why don’t you give me your
pants?"
~~~~~~~
As previously
illustrated, Helen was not the reason for Homi’s
shout. The reason for the shriek was rough and flaky on the outside, but soft
and chewy on the inside, and had just walked through the clinic door.
Homi cowered behind her copy of STD Weekly, but it was to no
avail.
"Homi? What are you doing
here?"
Homi considered her options. They involved tearing off her shirt,
making up an excuse, fleeing the scene, or some combination thereof. She went
for the excuse. "I . . . I was just . . . sitting in
this chair, and reading this fascinating article about, about, about . . . How
‘bout you?" She smiled brilliantly up at him.
Chewy looked
skeptical but answered nonetheless. "I come here for alternative therapy.
You know, stress relief?"
"HERE?
But who do you work with?"
Chewy opened
his mouth to reply, but, with the remarkable convenience so often found in
amateur and professional fiction alike, a "nurse" with parabola-like
curves and a shirt that some nude beaches in the South of France wouldn’t have
allowed because of its indecent exposure walked over.
"Hello,
Chewy," she pouted, bending over. "Ready for our .
. . appointment?"
"YES!"
he replied, then: "Oh, Homi, I . . . well . .
."
"No,
no," Homi replied, backing up frantically and
tripping over several people who looked as if they could transmit herpes by
giving you a funny look. "I’m on my way to . . . to . . . have sex with a
blond Swede . . . he’s called Lars . . . have fun . . . try not to be too
tense." With that, she fled.
"Homi . . ." Chewy called, looking remorsefully after
her. Not that the remorse lasted long, but it’s the thought that counts.
~~~~~~~
Actually,
it’s quite a coincidence that we were just discussing the South of France,
because that’s where Jenny and Viggo Mortensen kept
their wicker bungalow. Yes, we all know that chateaus are more the norm, but,
well . . .
Anyway, the
bungalow was rocking dangerously. Within, Jenny, exasperated and slightly out
of breath, said, "Viggo, PUSH! It’s almost there
. . ."
A patient
voice (ostentatiously male, much to our surprise) replied, "Jenny, just
give up. It won’t fit, and we’ve always done fine without it."
"No!
We’ll get it in if it’s the last thing I do! Push, damnit!" This was followed by heavy grunting, then exhausted panting.
Viggo leaned against the bronze elephant, wiping sweat from his brow.
"The elephant will not fit in our bedroom no matter how much we damage the
molding around the door. Couldn’t we just use it in the hall?"
"No! We
NEED it! Come on! This day we fight, remember?"
Viggo groaned, but obeyed. The bungalow swayed dangerously.
~~~~~~~
Brian woke up
stark naked in a rather mussed-up bed. This wasn’t surprising. That fact that
his blow-dryer wasn’t in the bed with him was the surprise. When he discovered
a rather battered fish, he thought no more of the incident. He climbed out of
bed, pulled on some clothes (a rather lacy camisole and some khakis, to be
precise), and spent approximately three hours forming his hair into a laminated
dome that could turn bricks.
Just as he
was applying his glittery mascara, Mary walked in.
Without
further ado (because we are tired of writing logical dialogue, precious), she
said, "Brian, I’ve looked death in the face and decided that sex is much
more fun." She pushed him onto the bed and began quoting Moulin Rouge verbatim.
"You want to make love, don’t you?"
"You’re
messing up my hair," Brian objected.
"Free
the tiger!" Mary made a noise like 270 Mexican Whooping Llamas having
labor pains. A sound suspiciously like the fly on a pair of khakis being ripped
open followed. Mary gasped. "Big . . . er . .
."
What could
have been an embarrassing moment was averted by a convenient power outage.
Several minutes of squeaking, gasping, and a rather odd bubbling noise
followed.
"Brian .
. . is that a fish?" Mary inquired casually.
"Yes,
yes, YES!" Brian replied coherently.
"Oh."
~~~~~~~
Homi, having sorrowfully fled the horny Chewy and his scantily-clad
"nurse", wandered sorrowfully. She considered drowning her sorrows,
but recalled what this could lead to and shuddered. Instead, she entered a
Sam’s Club, intending to walk under a falling family-size box of Goldfish and
end her misery.
She turned
into the "Boxed snack foods, Pesticides, and Moose-Care Products"
aisle, looking for large falling objects, only to find . . .
Granola bars.
BOXES of them.
"They
come in different flavors?" Homi whispered in
awe.
Then, seeing
a possessed Target employee heading purposefully toward her, she acted. Ripping
off her shirt, she wrapped it around several boxes of – she still couldn’t
believe it – Chewy Bars, and ran for the exit.
This must
be the most cardio I’ve done all year, she thought as she ran, and ran, and ran . .
. into Chewy. She landed on top of him, a rather ironic reversal of the
situation she’d been trying to orchestrate for quite some time.
"Oof," Chewy said, with his usual display of intellect.
"Chewy,
I found -" Homi was panting for more reasons
than one, but there was no need for explanation. Chewy had seen the boxes.
"They
come in different flavors?" he whispered in awe. Then: "Can you . . .
could we . . ."
"Yes. Now. Immediately. Yes. Yes.
Yes."
They made it
back to Homi’s apartment in record time, and Chewy
sat on the bed while Homi fired up the hot glue gun,
not unconscious of the fact that she wasn’t wearing a shirt and that she had a
can of whipped cream placed conveniently on her bedside table.
Homi unwrapped the first bar with some trepidation.
"Ready?" She had the glue gun ready.
The actual
procedure was surprisingly painless for all parties involved (including the
author). Homi looker nervously at her handiwork. "Did it work?"
"Well,
it seems to have," Chewy replied, becoming aware of Homi’s
shirtless status and perking up (take it in what sense thou wilt).
"But,"
Homi fished about for an excuse, "We should test
it in all its capacities." Except possibly anal, she added
mentally.
"That
would be the most . . . scientific course of action."
"Well,
then . . ."
The
bedsprings went glink!
And they
didn’t even need the whipped cream after all.